IF YOU GO

John Muir Trail and Mount Whitney

Where:
The John Muir Trail runs 215 miles from Yosemite Valley to the summit of Mount Whitney, through three national parks — Yosemite, Kings Canyon and Sequoia. It's another 11 miles to the trailhead at Whitney Portal. The Portal is 13 miles west of, and just about a mile higher than, the town of Lone Pine.

Getting there:
Lone Pine is roughly 300 miles north of San Diego via I-15 and U.S. 395. Onion Valley is 15 miles west and just about a mile higher than Independence, which is 15 miles north of Lone Pine on U.S. 395.

It's a gorgeous, sunny summer day in the Sierra Nevada, I'm three days into a five-day backpacking trip that I've been dreaming about for years, my goal has finally come into sight after 20-odd miles of trekking over high mountain passes and descending into deep forested valleys ... and I am not a happy camper.

Like the granite terrain I've been crossing, my day and my hike have had their ups and downs.

I had started off two days earlier from a trail head called Onion Valley near Lone Pine, in high spirits, full of anticipation for sights and adventures to come along the southernmost miles of the John Muir Trail, culminating with an ascent of Mount Whitney, the highest point in the continental United States at 14,497 feet.

I'd spent that first night alone in my tent, full of self-doubt and physically aching after missing a turnoff on the trail down from the Kearsarge Pass, sending me down some steep, rocky switchbacks, where I stumbled and raised a painful knot on my left ankle. I was way behind schedule at the end of what was supposed to be an easy day, and I was facing what figured to be a long, hard day.

The next morning dawned sunny and clear — you get a lot of that in the Sierra. My ankle was still sore, but movement didn't hurt, and the long, hard day I'd feared quickly became a literal and figurative walk in the park. Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks, actually.

I was following rushing streams through towering pine forests. There were clumps of flowers scattered about; songbirds called to each other; a woodpecker was hammering off to my left; I spotted a mule deer and two gangly fawns, who were soon spooked by the approach of two horseback riders shepherding a dozen pack mules. The pack train might have clip-clopped out of the 19th century, except one of the mules was hauling two big plastic picnic coolers and the younger rider was wearing iPod earbuds under his cowboy hat.

I also had begun encountering hikers heading north on the trail, which is universally referred to as the JMT by its fans. I would tell them about the benign miles I'd just covered and they would tell me about the snow still guarding the north side of 13,200-foot Forester Pass in mid-July. The snow was the source of my worries.

When I reached the pass, it was indeed hard-going, but it was more hard-messy than hard-dangerous. Twice I sank into wet snow up to my thighs, and the only way to avoid the snow even part of the time was by picking a path along the tops of the boulders. But when I crossed the pass and set up camp on the rocky plain to the south, I figured the worst was over.

For day three, the map showed a mostly downhill run to the base of Whitney without significant-looking climbs or descents; certainly nothing like Forester. That was just as well, because I had developed good-sized blisters on each foot.

I fell asleep thinking ahead — you know, I think I'm going to pull this off — and back: Let's see, today I met Bruce, Brian (who passed me while I was struggling with my pack), Boots and Bernadette. I guess I'll have to grade it a solid B.

The next morning, I wake up well before dawn to pack up, bandage up and get on the trail. By the time the sun clears the ridges, I'm nearly to Guitar Lake, the place I'd been aiming for the previous day before the karma went south. Soon I'm passed by Sean, who got a later start, but I'm not going to rush and wear myself out.

A couple of hours later, after gaining a good 2,000 feet over maybe three miles of hiking, I reach the junction of the JMT with the main trail from Whitney's east side. More than a dozen packs are leaning against the rocks here, left by people lightening their loads before tackling the final 2½ miles and 1,000 feet of altitude to the summit. There are also several people heading down after summiting, one of whom greets me with “Go Bolts.”

I'm wearing an old Chargers cap that's been my backcountry headgear for 15 years, and I've run into a large group from East County, most of whom are ready to party when they get back down.

Turns out San Diego County is well-represented on the mountain this day, as are faces that became familiar the day before. As I climb higher, I meet Sean, who's looking pretty chipper heading downhill; Brian, who remarks that I'm looking a lot better now; and, close to the summit plateau, a fellow from Carlsbad named Ted, who used to live just a couple of blocks from me. In addition to exchanging “Do you knows?,” Ted points out that storm clouds are forming behind me.

Soon enough, I hear the rumble of thunder. Swell. Lightning is approaching — “No Bolts!” I mutter — and I'm standing on the highest place around. Well, nearly. It's still a few hundred yards to the stone hut on Whitney's summit. A sign at the trail junction warns of the danger of lightning, states specifically that the hut will not provide shelter and advises immediately heading for lower ground at the first sign of lightning. I wrestle with that advice after having come this far.

Meantime, others are heading downhill. Some are hustling and eyeing the clouds; others are strolling and seem remarkably unconcerned. As rain and hail spit down and the wind picks up, I assess the situation. Go forward and risk being hit by lightning; go back and run into the storm, which seems to have stalled over the trail junction; do nothing and get colder and wetter.

Admittedly being a tad melodramatic, I decide: “I'd rather be killed by lightning on the summit than freeze to death below it.” I take off jogging for the summit hut — the thin air at 14,000-plus feet is surprisingly no problem — and as I get closer I see a collection of lightning rods on its roof. And on the door is a sign saying something to the effect of “Do not remove the floorboards; they are part of the lightning protection system.”

I ride out a half hour or so of rain and hail unscathed inside the hut, somewhat sad that there is no one around to share my little bottle of champagne and marvel with me over the strange artifacts on the walls: A Steve Irwin as Croc Hunter action figure; a plastic lizard; a dangling crystal pendant; and many, many names and dates scrawled on the rock walls.

With a break in the weather, I emerge to write my name in the official summit register, then head back down the mountain. I've got the trail to myself as I descend to a campsite on the main Whitney trail to spend a final night before returning to civilization. I'm tired, but happy.

Descending to Whitney Portal the next day, I'm surprised at the number of day-trippers going the other way before I realize, oh, yeah, it's Saturday. I've completely lost track. Talk about getting away from it all.